Page 100 of Soulgazer

Faolan watches me like a wounded creature.

I retreat toward our cabin as Tavin gives orders, the sails and ropes shifting above the deck. It’s become a haven these last few weeks, being surrounded by Faolan’s treasures, falling asleep to the steady beat of his heart. I’m almost to the door when Faolan appears, blocking it with his arm.

“You can’t go alone.”

“I can.”

“Love—” He winces under my cold stare. “Lass, we’ve been over this before. You’re too rare to risk.”

“Doyouknow the secret passages around my father’s castle?” I fold my arms over my ribs. “Didyouspend your childhood sneaking in and out of them, or avoiding other people because they might set off your magic? I can do this, Faolan—let me do this.”

His full lips tug into a frown, and it’s all I can do not to linger on them. His pull has an unfair advantage on me, drawing me closer like a silver spider’s web.

I force my focus onto his gloved hand, remembering just why his soul seems to call out to me stronger than most. “You should tell the crew.”

He balks. “Why?”

“Because you love your pack of wolves.” Faolan’s arm drops to his side, lips parting and then locking shut. He doesn’t deny it. I reach for the door handle and take in one slow breath of his scent. Whiskey and salt. “And they love you.”

I push inside, but I’m not a step past when his words bite at my heels.

“Aren’t you a wolf now, too, Saoirse?”

The door swings shut before I can respond.

Thirty-Seven

The first time I laid eyes on my cottage seven years ago, I didn’t see the thatched roof fraying at the edges from frequent storms, nor the crumbling stones at its base with holes for mice to slip through. Instead, I fixed my sight on the garden and learned how to breathe again.

Dirt packs beneath my nails as I pause on the worn path and tear another weed free. The garden’s been neglected since I left for the Damhsa, thyme and yarrow flowering as the rest of the herbs go to seed. I break a stem off, arrow-point leaves scattered with purple blooms, and relish its scent.

It’s good to feel steady earth again. And strange.

My body rocks on instinct as I reach the cottage door and lift the stubborn latch free.

Inside is nothing special, yet once it was everything to me. A window looking out over the ocean, wooden rafters half covered by cobwebs, a bed tucked into one corner and a trunk at its feet. I took two of the quilts with me, stowed on my father’s ship, but one pink treasure remains. The fireplace is blackened and cold, a table and chair lonely beside it without my candlesticks and cloth. But the other table, nearest the door, is as beautiful as ever.

Neat rows of jars and cloth-wrapped bundles of herbs remain undisturbed on the scarred wood, tucked just below a second window. I brush a finger down the line: a clay pot of dried dandelion root to ease the pain of a monthly cycle, a jar of chamomile and valerian to brew for a restless mind, yarrow in case of injury. I hesitate to touch the sachet full of lavender and dried honeycomb—a vanity of mine once, meant to soften the skin and make it fragrant and sweet.

Perfect for a new bride.

“You’re really going through with it, then?”

I lower my hand and shut my eyes in a useless attempt to hide from Brona. We haven’t spoken in the days since our fight, too busy summoning the wind by burning falcon’s feathers from Frozen Hearth, or rowing when the breeze refused to be caught.

“Aye. I haven’t much of a choice.” Not with only two weeks left.

I pack a few of the jars and bundles into a small leather rucksack, right alongside the poisonous little vial of caipín baís ink. “At least it’s only my own life I’ll be risking.”

I shut the door with a heavy shudder and lean against it. “And like you said, I’m worthless to my father dead. Whatever consequence comes, it won’t be that.”

She quiets. Kicks once at the ground.

“I shouldn’t have said any of it.” Brona’s dark hair falls into her face, lacking the usual braid, and she shoves it back with a scowl. “I just—I didn’t know.”

My shoulders tense as I study her face, but the anger isn’t directed at me. With her arms crossed and head down, she looks less certain than I’ve ever seen her. “I never told you.”

Her jaw sets. “You never had to. Everyone knows Maccus has a bloody heart of stone—and Dermot?” Brona shakes her head, laugh bitter. “He’s a feckin’ monster.”

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